Fight, Jamiee - Ellie R. Hunter
The only high better than snorting cocaine is having the world recognise all your hard work by sending your debut album to number one. We all knew we would make it one day, but we’d all be liars if we didn’t admit to having moments of doubt on those long, hard days, when no one would bother to listen to our demos. We’d also be liars if we said we weren’t lapping up the attention we’re receiving, especially from the chicks. Life’s fucking awesome, and all we’d dreamed it could ever be—music, women, and more parties than there’s time for.
I come to a finish and roll off the most recent fuck—just one in a long line of fucks. I barely remember their faces, and I sure as shit don’t remember their names. As long as my dick gets wet, I could care less who they are.
Trying to catch my breath, I drag the sheet up my naked body while whatever her name is rolls onto her side, angling her arm so her head rests on the palm of her hand.
“I must say, you’ve certainly lived up to my expectations.” Her voice is soft, preferable to the grating, high-pitched ones I’ve come to hear so much of these days.
“Huh?” I don’t have the first idea what she’s going on about.
“My boyfriend isn’t a fan. He talks trash about you every chance he gets.”
Boyfriend? Well, I guess she isn’t winning any girlfriend-of-the-year award after having me inside her for the last hour.
“Is that right?” I grunt.
“You beat him to number one—”
“Hang on,” I blurt out, cutting her off. “Who’s your boyfriend?”
My breathing stills. I know—I just fucking know—who he is before she says, “Deacon Lockheart.”
Bolting upright, my first instinct is to get the hell out of here, go back down to the party, and forget this ever happened. For the last eighteen months, Deacon’s band, Locks and Hearts, has been trying to kick us out of the number one slot on the charts. We don’t really know each other all that well, but it hasn’t stopped the critics from trying to make it out as some big rivalry. Though, when he hears I’ve fucked his girl, I reckon tensions will be amped to the max—without the help of the media.
“Let me get this straight. You’re Lockheart’s girl, but you’re here, in bed, with me. Why?”
“Who wouldn’t want to fuck one of the hottest guys in town right now?”
I get it. She’s in a relationship until she can latch on to someone better, more well-known. But that someone isn’t going to be me. I’m not into conniving women, but I’ll happily piss Deacon off whenever and wherever the opportunity arises.
Falling back on the mattress, I reach for Deacon’s girl, pulling her over so she’s lying on top of me.
To hell with her relationship status.
“Fuck me again,” I coax.
She leans over to kiss me as the door swings open, slamming against the wall. Deacon looms in the doorway, his face red with anger. His girl scrambles off of me, snatching her dress from the floor as she goes.
She’s not so brazen now.
“The fuck, Cora?” he bellows, stepping farther into the room. “You’re fucking Tucker? You fucking whore!”
I slip into my boxer briefs while he’s focused on her, but my movements catch his attention and he turns on me. Taking two steps closer, he points his finger at me.
“And you! Taking number one wasn’t enough, so you had to fuck what’s mine too?”
“I didn’t know who she was, man. She jumped on me the second I walked through the door.” It’s the truth. Not that he wants to hear it.
He rushes across the room and barrels into my gut with his shoulder. The fucker winds me, but I get over it pretty quickly. Tumbling out of the room, my back hits the wall, jolting me into fighting back harder. This fucker isn’t going to get the better of me.
Using the wall as leverage, I push us across the hall, but push too hard, forcing us both down the stairs where we land with thuds.
Deacon hollers my name, getting closer. Climbing to my feet, I swing my fist back, ready to punch him as he staggers toward me.
“One day, you piece of shit, you’re going to pay for this,” he vows.
That’s all I hear before my fist connects with his cheekbone.
I didn’t take his warning seriously, and as it turned out, I should have. Maybe it wouldn’t have cost me my heart.
Ten Years Later
The lights cut out,